The Risen
by beastthebeauty
Summary: Aurora Donovan, recently pulled out of the debris after a bomb detonates in a hotel, finds herself surrounded by the people that once plagued her childhood. Skilled in hand to hand combat and evasiveness, Aurora becomes the target of Gotham's Reckoning. With her soul aching for freedom from her past, Aurora dives into his world of violence and murder, hoping to find redemption.
1. Prologue

**WARNING: This story is rated M. There will be disturbing and graphic content including  
but not limited to forced and consensual sexual acts, violence and murder.**

The Risen

Prologue

Ash billowed mercilessly into the night sky, debris falling to the ground in massive fiery bundles, competing for the rubble filled lot which once held Gotham's most luxurious hotel. Blood pooled in numerous patches, limbs torn from their owners, lay crushed and broken - scorched clothing, misplaced jewels with smoke still swirling about their dull faces littered the panicking street. Screams echoed into the dark, crying out for loved ones that would no longer answer back. The stench of burning flesh rose from the ground in cruel torrents, blanketing the street in agonizing certainty that their lives – those that were left intact – had just been violently altered.

Sirens wailed in the distance. Slowly they grew louder; slowly a filthy hand pushed up through the wreckage. Finally a wrist, finally an arm; grasping, pulling. Her head was spinning, her body throbbing under the weight of the ruins. "Someone help me." The inaudible words hung in the dead air as if they knew they were her last; as if they knew and didn't want to leave her to die alone. "Someone help me, please." Her ears were ringing, her eyes fighting to open against the debris that pressed into her face.

Sirens wailed in the distance.

Pins and needles stabbed through her legs, piercing through her deadened flesh to the bone. Her lower body filled with warmth; the pungent fragrance of blood perfuming the still air in her tomb. Warmth caressed her unbound hand, gripping it tightly. "Are you alive?"

"Yes."

"If you can hear me, try to move your fingers."

"Help me, please."

"We've got life! Over here, guys! Let's move this beam!"

Freezing air consumed her body, forcing its way into her lungs as the crushing weight of the building is removed from her. She gasps and sputters, finally breathing, finally seeing. Her eyes absently gaze at the starless sky; its blackness – it is oblivious and unforgiving. It shifts under her scrutiny as she is lifted from her accepted fate, disregarding the mutilation that has occurred just under its face. She is tired.

**Hello, everyone! It's been a long time since I've written anything, so bear with me!**  
**I hope you enjoy this crazy ride I plan to take! Feel free to comment or review!**


	2. 1

The Risen

1

A shooting pain stabbed through her eyes as they opened into the brightness of the hospital room she was lying in. She winced and squinted, her hand coming up to shield her face from the dazzling intrusion. Dark bruises and mild swelling lined her wrist and forearm- a collection of fresh stitches settle into her line of sight- evidence of the predicament she had so recently found herself in. Her body ached terribly and she screamed on the inside, breathing through the pain that had suddenly awakened in her core.

Her equipment erupted into a chorus of fast paced beeping, the smooth lines exploding into jagged peaks. Tears brimmed, burning her sore eyes until they fell, dissolving into the bandages that adhered to the wounds on her cheeks. She grunts ferociously through clenched teeth and closed lips, struggling to combat the overwhelming agony of shattered bones, snarling against the surgical cuts in her seared flesh. Her arms involuntarily thrashed at her sides, pulling at her sutures, yanking on the IVs that did nothing to relieve the torment, trying to cause a pain that would distract her from the unbearable torture that jolted through her.

Heat bursts in her chest, the lights about her head dim. The incessant high pitched shriek of a single tone echoes through her weakening mind. Her vision blurs, eyes crossing, body convulsing, chest burning, lungs dying, her empty and cold childhood in the Narrows of Gotham City faintly replaying in her head- maybe death will be kind. Maybe death will be warm.

"Ms. Donovan?"

The voice was distant. The room was dark.

Heat again erupted into her chest and her eyes flew open, connecting with the wide gaze of a nurse. "Ms. Donovan, everything is ok. You're in Gotham General Hospital. You were found underneath debris from the Lotus Palace. You flat lined but we got you back. You're going to be fine."

"I died."

The room was emptying. The nurse smiled contently, briskly nodding her head. "You did. But you're ok now."

"You saved me."

Again she nodded, her smile never fading.

"Why?"

* * *

_Freezing rain fell from the sky like small knives, spearing the exposed malnourished legs of a twelve year old Aurora as she sprinted through the odorous darkened streets of the Narrows. Her bare feet carried her silently across the asphalt, ignoring the stabs of sharp pebbles and glass, and the occasional slippery patch of garbage. A thin trail of blood lined the inside of her scrawny thighs, unequally seeping down to her bony knees. She could still feel him, his cold hands running across her skin, ripping through her Hello Kitty panties; demolishing her insides with his dagger, piercing her innocence across the hall from the negligence of her addict of a mother. She could still feel the strength of his arm across her neck to cut short the shrieks emancipating from her delicate throat, the force of his hefty frame, pinning her down, crushing her, stabbing her, using her up and leaving her defenseless and exposed to the cold dark truth of the world: light could not thrive. _

_Her light had been snuffed out, stolen, obliterated. She had been destroyed. And now her shell carried her out into the world; the same world that had abandoned her; the same world that accused her of fabricating stories of abuse to compensate the disheveled state of her mother. The same world that refused to believe that their most favored citizen, Gregory Donovan, M.D., head of Gotham General, could do such harm to his prized daughter; the same world that labeled her a fraud and pathological liar; the same world that condemned her to her vile fate. _

"Ms. Donovan?"

Aurora's eyes blinked absentmindedly as she came back to reality. She was no longer cold and wet, running through the clusters of strange men that were enticed by the sight of an unprotected child; she was warm and dry, sitting as comfortably as she could with her healing ailments, in a sturdy black leather chair. Her dark eyes wandered through the office once more, taking in the overall mahogany of the walls smothered in multiple degrees and certificates. A large fish tank, built into the wall, sat to her left, two sharks drearily swimming an unchanged pattern. Slow clicks bounced off of the walls; a failed attempt at hypnotism. Boring furniture, boring portraits, boring books – Dr. Maverick.

His eyes were a solid blue, icy and distant, uninterested in the once young girl that had tried to sully the name of his mentor. His golden hair sat beautifully atop his head like a crown of feathered curls, swirling across his cranium in yellow waves. Usually the front of his hair fell across his face in angled bangs, adding to his angelic appearance, but at work his bangs were pushed back, the harsh lines of his face unmasked. He watched her patiently, the gaze in his eye unmoving- he was waiting for her to acknowledge that she had heard him.

"Yes."

"I asked you how it feels to be in the same building as your father after so many years."

Aurora holds his gaze, watching the way his pink lips angle downward in a professional frown as she takes too long to answer. "It doesn't feel like anything."

He scribbled onto his boring notepad.

She couldn't help but to drop her eyes to his crossed legs, watching the way his pen danced across the pad held against his thigh. It didn't matter what she said- or didn't say- he had already chosen a side. After asking the nurse why her life had been saved, Aurora was signed into the psyche ward at Gotham General, and once again, she was forced to accept her demons; she would never leave Gotham or its corrupt- they wouldn't let her. They would scribble lies onto their pads, have her locked up in Arkham Asylum, calling her suicidal, and because of her father, she would never be trusted.

"Have you seen him since you ran away?"

Aurora smiled, her eyes lifting back to look at her psychiatrists' face- he was already watching her.

"No, I haven't. I'm sure the reunion will be exhilarating."

Maverick's eyes drop as he lets out a quiet scoff at her evident sarcasm. "Are you looking forward to seeing him?"

Her mind traveled- quickly, uninterrupted. _His eyes, large and brown, glazed over in palpable drunkenness, hung above her head. His mouth, smiling, revolting; he couldn't wait to finally have her. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, her pain cut off by his arm on her neck; he filled her._

"No."


	3. 2

The psyche ward; the place Gotham believed would protect them from their end. Their fancy laws kept them from putting him in the electric chair, forced them to allow him his mask, encouraged them to allow him free reign of his section like the other patients given that he be in an industrial straight jacket at all times. They even provided him with a psychiatrist- a Dr. Maverick. They were fools and easily deceived. He would remain quiet in this place, silently remaining in the shadows; he would let them believe he couldn't destroy his harness, let them have faith that he would follow their rules and refrain from ending them. He would stay put until Talia called for him- and then he would crush them all, starting with the unsuspecting people in Gotham General.

The thought of Talia, his innocence reincarnate, brought a warm feeling to him in the chilled hallway outside of Dr. Maverick's office. She had been exceptional in the destruction of Gotham's most cherished piece of idolatry. Home to some of Gotham's wealthiest and most fraudulent inhabitants, The Lotus Palace had been ideal for destruction- even more so during the fundraiser held in honor of Harvey Dent by none other than Bruce Wayne.

His hands curled into fists inside the rigid suit. Even after the truth came out about Dent's destructive habits during the end of his life, and the cover up that submerged the city in, to this day, the most violent times Gotham has ever seen, its citizens were adamant about placing its corrupt on a pedestal. And by the real "Two Face", Bruce Wayne – the Batman; he had been broken once before, he would be broken again. His fists constrict within his jacket, irritation building in his bulky limbs. His blood boiled beneath his skin; he wanted to seize Wayne by his face and crush him; demolish him- spill his essence in the streets for all of Gotham to see.

The wooden door opened in front of him. Dr. Maverick stepped out into the hallway, his hands thrust into the pockets of his sweater, his juvenile eyes trying desperately to avoid contact with the Reckoning. He stepped to the side, allowing a nurse to enter his office. She quickly returned to the door pushing a wheelchair occupied by a young woman. Long, thick, raven black tresses adorned her head in a messy bun. Two large gauze pads covered her cheeks, encasing most of her face. The skin on her neck and arms was dull, bruises and scars littering her thin frame. Whatever her injuries, they had been severe, and she had recently been permitted to leave her bed. Her eyes, black with indifference, paid no attention as she sat facing him, waiting for the nurse and the doctor to finish their conversation about her medications and her possible transfer over to Arkham in a few weeks. He wondered what her ailment was; what quandary had landed her in a place such as this. She was exhausted, aggravated, uncaring, and utterly hopeless – yet she was completely sane.

He knew psychotic when he saw it; he knew the demented, the insane. He knew the face of the unbalanced, the scent of the maniacal; he had grown to be a man surrounded by them. This woman was not one of them. This woman was frozen, numb, empty – but not deranged. Why was she here?

His gaze followed the woman as she was rolled passed him; her eyes disregarding him until she had fully passed- then her head turned in his direction, her brow scrunched, her eyes focused downward toward his legs as if she were hearing him speak rather than noticing that he was there. She returned her head to its original position, and then she was gone.

"Dr. Maverick."

Though his eyes still watched after the strange woman, Bane's voice, metallically amplified by his mask, shook the doctor to his bones. Finally he returned his attention to the man standing in front of him.

"Bane." Apprehension was what spoke for him. Bane enjoyed the terror that clawed through his psychiatrist- he took pleasure in seeing him try to push out his chest in an attempt to seem unafraid.

He smiled with delight as he stood and watched Maverick shrink back into his insignificance.

"Let's make this quick, Dr."

* * *

The black leather chair groaned under Bane's mass, its stiff back providing little to no comfort to the spinal injury he had suffered when he was small, the minuscule arms incapable of rest. Even with his torso compressed in the cream colored jacket, the seat couldn't accommodate his bulk. He sat with his feet planted firmly on the ground, his trunk leaning forward on an angle that caused the least amount of strain on his back; his mask echoing his slow breathing into the hushed room. He watched Maverick- malicious, egotistical, vindictive Dr. Maverick- squirm in his seat. Fear permeated the crowded office; curiosity and vigilance were also present, but the fear, the fear was almost tangible.

"To be so high and mighty, you deteriorate quickly, Dr."

Maverick clears his throat, trying to swallow the thick saliva that had risen into his mouth. "I haven't gotten used to this yet." Maverick drops his eyes as the words involuntarily leave his lips, cursing himself for his display of weakness.

"You are a child, Dr. Maverick." Maverick's frightened eyes connect with Bane's unwavering glare. "A child with many impressive capabilities," – his eyes briefly move across the framed degrees on the wall behind Maverick's head, then return to the anxious eyes he knows are too unnerved to leave his own- "that deceive you into thinking you are superior." He smiles beneath his mask, daunting wrinkles forming at the corners of his eyes, thoughts of John Dagget's warm blood running down his hands, seeping under the cuffs that had bound his wrists during his freedom. "I have dealt with children like you before, Dr."

Maverick's eyes widen at the indirect reference, his heart skipping a beat. Immediately he thought of his late friend John; thought of the way he had looked when police pulled his body from the dumpster behind the hospital. His face had been crushed and torn to one side, what bones were left floated about in the gory mess; blood; so much blood.

Bane watched as the fear in Maverick's eyes turned into anger, the anger into sadness, the sadness into defiance; he had known John Dagget personally. He watched the mental struggle force its way from Maverick's mouth. "That's enough out of you!"

Bane leisurely sits back in his chair, watching Maverick try to regain his authority. His eyes were wide with alarm at the sound of his own voice. "I'm in charge here, buddy. Not you!" He stands from his chair, his flimsy arms moving about to pump him up; his hands finally landing on his hips when he feels his confidence rising. He would attempt to stand his ground.

"You had your chance to run things, and you know what? You ran it into the ground! And now you're in here with me!"

Maverick leans down, making his face level to Bane's, his voice hardly above a whisper. "You're in my world now." He returns to his seat, his body trembling with excitement and feigned strength. He slips his stray hairs back over his head, crosses his legs and holds his pen at the ready above his yellow pad. "Now, let's get down to business. How are you feeling today?"

Bane, his eyes still focused on the exaggerated Maverick, smiles again. Breaking this man would take little effort- he would enjoy the time the two of them spent together. He would allow the man to believe he was in control, pick the Dr's brain until there was nothing left, and then he would tear him apart, in the same manner he had torn his apparent friend. "Exceptional."


	4. 3

**A/N: Should have posted this earlier. I do not own **  
**any characters from The Dark Knight Rises.**  
**I only own my originals. **

Soft music filled the open room, gently caressing Bruce's ears. His eyes are closed, hands resting on his sore knees, his head vaguely moving to the tune. He can see the notes in his head, his fingers absently strumming his knees as if he were playing the piano instead of his wife.

"You're incredible," he said quietly, his eyes opening to look at the woman sitting beside him. Her eyes are closed, her head gently moving, hands gliding across the keys as if they were born to do such a thing. Her brown hair hangs bone straight against her back, her full pouty lips, always painted a vivid shade of red, her thin frame rocking back and forth as she plays, paying him no mind.

He quietly slides from the bench, stretching out his aching legs, curling and uncurling his arthritic fingers, and cracking the sore spot in his lower back that never seems to go away. He walks over to the window, a floor to ceiling masterpiece that stretches the length of the room, and slipping his hands into his sweater pockets, he stares out onto the brilliant green land that surrounds his short-term home.

Not too long ago he had been overseas, enjoying his new life with Selina, indulging in the delicacies of a normal life. Gotham had been nothing more than a distant memory, fading to the outskirts of his mind like a nightmare long forgotten. The death of his parents in the form of worry lines, no longer took up residence on his aged face, and his beaten body was able to rest and relax, his heart cherished. He didn't feel the sting of love lost with the death of his greatest opponent, Talia Al Ghul. He didn't remember the pain that filled his chest unrelated to the knife she had slipped between his ribs on what he had thought would be his last day. He couldn't recollect the way his heart ached when he saw her body pinned between her seat and the steering column, her lifeless eyes open as if she were still capable of watching Gotham go up in flames.

Now as he stood, his eyes staring at nothing in particular, his mind revisited those places. He smelled her, felt her lingering touch against his skin, heard her voice in his ear.

_"It's the slow knife," Her eyes pierced him further than the dagger in her hand. _

_"the knife that takes its time; the knife that waits years without forgetting,"_

_No, not you, he had thought. Please, not you. _

_"that slips quietly between the bones." Her hand twists the blade in his chest, gutting his spirit completely._

_"That's the knife that cuts deepest."_

_He would die here, and by the hand of the woman he had loved. He'd given her everything, his mind, his body, and like a ridiculous child, he'd given her his company, foolishly handing over everything he held dear, everything that straddled the line of protection and war; he'd given it to her willingly. He had failed as a savior, he'd failed as a leader, and he'd failed as a man._

_"Please," _

_His plead went unnoticed as her thumb pressed down the trigger to the nuclear bomb that was being paraded through the streets. _

_Nothing._

"Bruce?"

The sound of Selina's voice brought him back, his hands reaching behind him, feeling her presence there. Her smooth hand filled his as she stood beside him; she rested her head against his shoulder, her free hand gently caressing his arm. He knew being back in Gotham was no easier for her and yet his mind had drifted off for the third time that day.

"Is it the hotel again?"

The two of them had arrived in Gotham three weeks prior after receiving a call from his old friend and caretaker, Alfred Pennyworth. He had been beaten by a group of street thugs and had no one else to look after him. Alfred had been with Bruce for his entire life, caring for him when he was but an infant, looking after him after the murder of his parents, and protecting him when he thrust himself into a world of chaos, shielded by a suit black as night. Bruce owed him everything, and so he packed up his new life and returned to the grime and confusion that was his former home.

He was bombarded as soon as he stepped off of his flight, news crews yelling at him about his return for a fundraiser at The Lotus Palace -a cover up for his real return- cameras flashing in his eyes, microphones being shoved under his nose- Selina stood off to the side, her face turned away from the crowd, her body language screaming unease. He brushed off the reporters' questions, quickly took her hand and pushed through the crowd to the car waiting for them.

The next week, during "his" fundraiser, a bomb that had been stashed in the grand hall exploded, destroying The Lotus Palace, killing six hundred thirty seven of the hotels patrons, two hundred of their children, one hundred fifty of the hotel staff, the five hundred sixty three people that had arrived early as to be in attendance when he finally showed up, and fifty four bystanders.

He had inadvertently become the reason over fifteen hundred people, citizens of his childhood home; individuals that were loved by his parents and by their own families had lost their lives. Fifteen hundred.

"Yes." The lie was smooth and certain.

Selina's hand tightened around his arm, gently squeezing as she lifted her head to see him. He gave her his undivided attention.

"What happened wasn't your fault."

He stares into her eyes, every part of him longing to believe her, needing her words to be true.

"That wasn't your party."

"Those people were there for me."

Her hand leaves his shoulder and instead cups his cheek; his face instinctively turns into her palm, his eyes closing.

"Bruce, I love you."

His eyes open at the firmness in her voice, watching as the softness in her eyes begins to harden into the unyielding stare he had fallen in love with. Her hand leaves his face, his skin instantly missing the warmth that had left him.

"But those people were there for themselves."

His eyes leave hers, sweeping the entirety of the room before returning to the glass panes. The sun was high, clouds wisped about in the sky, casting minute shadows on the manicured lawns. His mind cared for none of it. He only saw orange lighting up the night sky; he only smelled smoke. The acrid taste had filled his mouth once, making him gag, tears running down his face that was dusted with the recently cremated bodies of Gotham.

"Bruce."

She was calling him back again. She knew him so well. She knew that what had happened, no matter whose fault it may be, would eventually end him. And so she stayed by him, rubbing down his tired body, caressing his ego with her love and affections, and serenading him with her talents. She kept him sane. The look in her eye when she saw him, when she really saw that Bruce Wayne was just a man; it filled him completely and in a way mended his wounded soul.

His voice was low but calm when he spoke, his mind still reeling in its attempts to come back to reality.

"We should check on Alfred."

* * *

The master bedroom was large and located above the pond that graced the lands; it came equipped with a balcony. Swirls of white marble covered the floors and climbed the walls, stretching across the ceiling where they parted for a brief moment to allow a crystal chandelier to pierce through and hang gracefully above the room. A fireplace, gently humming with a low flame, sits directly across from the queen sized bed, adorned in a deep purple bed set. Another set of floor to ceiling windows rest on the far side of the room, the silver arch illuminated by sunlight, the balcony white in color just beyond them.

There were no footsteps as Bruce and Selina ascended the stairs and walked hand in hand down the hallway; their bodies though tired and resting still subconsciously relied on their instincts. They entered the room together, their arms bumping, her head gently resting against his shoulder, and only parted when they saw that Alfred wasn't there.

"Alfred?"

There is a shuffle.

Bruce and Selina turn in their spots, Bruce's voice still ringing in the empty room, their eyes landing on Alfred, who startled, had dropped a manila folder to the floor, sending a stack of papers sliding in various directions.

"Alfred," Selina quickly walks over to him, her arm outstretched to touch his quaking arm.

"I didn't hear you." He said quietly, his hand clutched to the pale fabric of the shirt over his heart.

"Sorry," spoke Selina again, her hand mechanically moving up and down and side to side, trying to soothe the frightened man. "We didn't mean to sneak up on you."

"Oh, it's all right." Alfred lowered his gaze to the floor, his eyes scanning the mess he would have to clean up. "I should be used to it by now."

That face.

"Oh, don't worry about that, Alfred. Bruce will get that."

Blake. John Blake, Robin. He had been a police officer in Gotham the last time Bruce had seen him. He had been young and vibrant, urgent to save the citizens and bring justice to those that did wrong. He remained strong during the torment that was Bane and Talia, fighting single handedly against the mercenaries that had taken over the streets, and when they had prevailed, and had wiped the city of its destruction, he inherited the Bat Cave. Though in grainy black and white, he looked almost the same.

Bruce reached down and plucked the newspaper article from the floor, his eyes never leaving the shrunken face of his old ally. His eyes were heavy, darker- hardened. He was larger -more muscular- his hair longer, but yes, it was Robin Blake. He stood smiling, his grim eyes never receiving the message, in a group of men, separated into rows of four and all wearing hospital scrubs.

"Here, sit down. Are you hungry?"

Bruce's eyes quickly scan through the article: Blake, along with several other people, had recently been hired at Gotham General in order to help out with the surplus of patients that had been brought in during the recent terrorist attack.

"No, I'm fine. I really would just like my papers."

Bruce had known Blake would never continue his career as a police officer, but a nurse? He was confused. He lowered the paper, his eyes beginning to sift through the scattered papers on the floor. He lowered himself down into a squat, his hand reaching out for a small white paper with "Gotham General" scrawled across its top.

The words "floor plans", "management", and "patients" were scribbled in a list next to dashes.

His other hand released the article and ran across the papers on the floor, spreading them apart. A few white pages with thin blue lines began to slip from their confines; blueprints. For what- the hospital? He grabbed them, his eyes scanning as quickly as they had over the article.

"Dining hall", he spoke in a whisper as his eyes danced across the small words written in the separate floor plans. "Patient rooms, security," his voice dropped off as he lowered the paper to the floor, his eyebrows scrunched as he tried to piece things together.

Robin John Blake quit his job as a police officer to take up being a protector in another form, but had recently been hired at Gotham General, which for some reason had become an area of interest to Alfred. Absentmindedly, his hand swept across the papers again, articles and photos slipping from their hiding places, his thoughts slipping as though he had tried to hide them away as well.

Someone of importance was at that hospital. Why else would Alfred be involved? Why else would Blake want him to research the building and get information on the patients that were there? Blake knew something, but what was it?

Then he saw him, and it were as if his nightmares had reared to life. His stomach clenched, his heart beating the inside of his chest like a sprinting horses hooves upon the ground. That metal mask, those tubes covering his mouth and his nose; the haughtiness in his eyes; Bane, also grainy in a black and white photo, stared up at him from the floor, the corners of his eyes wrinkled in amusement. Even in death, those eyes were mocking him.

"Alfred, what is this stuff?

Selina had kneeled down beside him, her hands slowly collecting the papers, pausing every few moments as she reads a few lines, or takes in the foreign faces in the article clippings.

"Bane."

Bruce's voice was a whisper, but still Selina's face fell in dread, her heart most certainly pounding within her own chest. Her eyes stared hard at Bruce, and he stared back. Bane was alive, they both knew it. There had been doubt in the beginning; what ifs and where were the reports- they had stayed up together some nights discussing the possibilities. Doubt no longer clouded their judgment. Bane was alive and well, and being housed in Gotham General.

"Alfred." Selina's voice was no longer polite. She stood up, turning swiftly to face the old man still sitting on the bed. Bruce rose as well, his eyes still staring at the dark face that followed his every movement.

Alfred sighed and Bruce finally looked at him. He sat still on his bed. His face, yellowing from healing bruises, was sad- like the face of a child being caught in a lie.

"What the hell is going on? What is this?"

"Is he alive?"

Alfred's eyes connect with Bruce's- he searches for words, ignoring Selina's earlier inquiry. He was remembering the way Bane had terrorized the city and the way Bruce had been broken. He was thinking of the heartbreak that soon followed when Bruce had been taken to La _Peña_ Dura where Alfred had known that he would never return.

"Yes."


	5. 4

Aurora lay quietly in her bed, her arms resting behind her head, her ankles crossed; blankets and pillows thrown onto the sparkling white floor. She stared at the equally white ceiling, counting the brown divots that tediously traveled across the panels. She listened to her roommate whisper rapidly to herself; spewing ill-fated warnings for all that believed in hope. "The night- the night falls," she had murmured earlier in the day. "Abandon your desires. Abandon your hopes and your dreams. The night- the night falls."

Sunlight glowed yellow into the area, gently kissing the curtain that separated the two sides of the spacious room like a veil between worlds. Hilda Burns was an eccentric woman; kind when in her right mind, crass when not- always hectic. She loved to sing in the mornings, but only when it was raining. Her voice was unpleasant- she screeched off key, infuriating the nurses in their hall and scaring the other patients. Aurora liked her.

"Turn on the light, Hilda." spoke the woman hastily, her voice strained with panic. "No, no, the light- the light will attract the children."

Aurora rolled onto her side, laying her face on her arms, her eyes dancing across the glowing sheet; listening.

"Hilda, the light; you must turn it on! You must turn on the light!"

"NO! The light will attract the children! We must save them. We must save the children!"

"The light, Hilda! Turn on the light! How can they see without the light?"

"No, the light ends! The night- the night falls."

"Good morning, Ms. Donovan."

Aurora's eyes remained on the curtain, her head slightly turning in acknowledgement of the male that had entered her room. "My name is Blake. I'll be moving you and Mrs. Burns into the rehabilitation room for group therapy."

"The night- the night falls."

"Take her first," spoke Aurora quietly, her head returning to its original position. "She doesn't like to be in here alone."

Soon a strong shadow joined the outline of her neighboring bed. The tenderness in his voice as he spoke to the crazed woman filled the room, his hands resting on her blanket. Hilda went silent. They were still.

"Is it alright if I move you?" he questioned.

Hilda didn't speak, but soon his silhouetted arms began to move, gliding across the curtain as he fixed her blankets and pillows, pausing as he unlocked her wheels.

"I'll come right back for you" he said quietly as he pushed Mrs. Burns' bed around the drape.

Silence. Finally.

Aurora took a deep breath, her mind beginning to fill with the madness that had become her life. Twice a week she suffered through private sessions with Maverick; listening to the condescension in his voice, the judgment in his words. Twice a week she would watch him roll his eyes at her every sound, redundantly questioning her about her life after she had run away, and blatantly expecting her to become overwhelmed with emotion and a sudden need to be heard. He was a fool.

Every day she was forced to sit in on group therapy sessions with several other patients where she would have to smile and answer polite questions in order to earn time outside, or roaming privileges around her floor. Neither interested her in the slightest.

"I'll start getting some paper work together for Arkham," Maverick's voice floated back into her head. She remembered hearing him converse with one of the nurses outside of his office earlier that week. "She'll be a shoo in for them."

Arkham Asylum was the home of Gotham City's criminally insane and the end of her unlived life. People weren't lawfully able to be thrown into Arkham after committing a crime, or lack thereof- they had to go through the psychiatric hospital, be tested, be shrinked, be committed. They needed to be accepted in, recommended, and lied on.

Gregory was going to throw her in Arkham for the rest of her life, holding tight to the falsehood of his innocence. He would write her off as unmanageable; a danger to herself and those around her, and he would let her rot. She would perish in a cage as the angry child that set out to wound her gracious and loving father; wrongfully imprisoned and enraged.

Her body ached. She pushed herself up from her bed, swinging her legs over the side. She rolled her ankles, pressing her feet flat on the cold hard floor, pointing her toes; she stood. Her body screamed. She stretched to one side, relishing the soreness in her muscles, than back, wincing at the snap in her spine, than to the opposite side, again appreciating the tender spots in her ribs and belly. She bends down, placing her hands flat on the floor. Her arms are shaky yet firm as her legs slowly spread and lift off of the ground. They rise simultaneously, gently coming together again, her toes at a point, above her head, completing her hand stand. Her body is in agony. Her elbows bend, lowering her face down until breath from her nose wafts dust particles about on the floor. Then her elbows extend, and her shivering arms lift her body up again.

Sweat tickles the side of her nose as her body forces itself to be healed enough for the type of stress she was forcing upon it. It had been two weeks since her surgeon told her she could return to exercising; which exercises he failed to mention. Her body needed to return to its normal abilities, those it learned in order to survive the streets of Gotham, preferably before she was thrust into the madhouse that was Arkham. And so she trained, painfully slow and with much difficulty, every day. In the mornings, before breakfast, she stretched her body to impossible lengths, forcing her limbs to come to life, to regain their flexibility. In the afternoons, before group therapy, she exerted her muscles to their breaking point in strength training, lifting various items in her room or lifting herself. In the evenings, while the other patients on her floor played games or relaxed outside in the fresh air, she would practice her agility, creating her own obstacle course in the rehabilitation room.

During the night she would slip from her room, and taking to the shadows of the dimmed halls, she would circle the floor several times, dipping under nurses stations- while they were working if she felt bold- practicing tiptoed flips off of vacant gurneys and over abandoned wheel chairs; causing distractions in one hallway and silently sprinting down another to escape searching eyes. Her record for clearing an empty hallway was 12 seconds- 20 with blockages.

Gradually, Aurora allows her legs to lower, pausing just before they lay flat on her bed. Red in the face and muscles quaking, she holds the pose, grunting against the burn in her abdomen, chest, and arms. Finally, when she feels as though her shoulders will give out, she forces her legs back up and over her head, arching her back as they go, lifting her hands from the ground as her feet touch down. She is upright and exhausted. She leans over, eyes closed and palms resting on her knees, as she slowly inhales through her nose and exhales through her mouth.

"Ms. Donovan, they're ready for you."

A gentle hand touches her shoulder and she stands up straight, her eyes connecting with a pair of soft brown orbs that watched her mere inches above her own. "If standing is too much for you, we can use a wheelchair," he speaks quietly, concern written across his young face. His features were delicate, his eyes deep, eyebrows, the same dark color of his hair, scrunched to show his worry, lips full and slightly pouted. He was sincere.

"No," she answered quietly, turning away from him and grabbing the hospital blanket from her bed. "I can walk."

Group therapy was a nuisance. Six patients, Aurora included, sat in a circle in the center of the rehabilitation room. They watched each other, eyes twitching, brows furrowing in suspicions as to why the others were there. Aurora was still, her eyes never leaving the multicolored frieze styled carpet. She ignored the wandering eyes around her, tuned out the excessively involved- red haired, blue eyed-therapist, Rebecca West, and instead focused on the ache that throbbed through her shoulders and hips from lifting herself in her room. The burn didn't bother her; she would still use the room as an obstacle course.

She sat with her feet planted on the ground, her shoulders slouched, her hands curled into soft fists resting on her thighs. Her face itched, she wanted to rip off the bandages that irritated her skin and rake her nails across her cheeks; she thought of a dog getting its belly scratched and thumping its tail against the ground in enjoyment.

It wasn't until an abrupt halt in the encircling conversation, and a sinking in her belly that her eyes lifted, her mind sharply coming into focus with the manifestation of dominance that had interrupted them. He walked slowly, deliberately, almost swaying as he moved, towering over the armed men that traveled at his sides. His muscles rippled underneath the blue patient scrubs hugging his legs, his torso bulged under the canvas material that constrained his upper body, his arms resisting the urge to burst through their restraints; his neck, thick with strength.

Recollections of damp tunnels and the stench of blood came to her mind; bulky shadows, heavy boots; a voice that sounded like metal; the eyes of the devil.

A thick metallic device with spiderlike tubes protruding from it covered his chin, mouth and nose. Large heavy sections wrapped around the sides of his face, obscuring his cheeks, while two tubes connected to a third segment, ran up the bridge of his nose and over his head. She knew from memory that the three pieces joined together, encasing the back of his head altogether; two metal latches, intricately designed, resting just behind his concealed ears.

His eyes, full of pride and wisdom, danger and intelligence, remained forward as he sauntered towards the group; wrinkles materializing at their corners as he waited for his security detail to set up a chair large enough for him.

The silence continued for several agonizing minutes after Bane had been seated, his ankles shackled to the legs of his chair, his eyes now watching Rebecca shift uncomfortably in her seat, pulling at the unfortunately short skirt she had worn.

Aurora returned her eyes to the floor, watching Rebecca's foot snag along her scrub bottoms as she crossed and uncrossed her legs, shifting from one direction to the other.

"Alright, let's get started," she spoke finally, her nerves at ease.

"You mean we haven't already?" An irritated male voice echoed loudly in the suddenly small room.

Aurora scoffed quietly, a half smile forming on her lips.

"Ms. Donovan." Rebecca smiles arrogantly as the infamous Aurora Donovan's eyes connect with her own. "We'll begin with you... since you seem to be in good spirits today."

Aurora lifts her head, her eyes on the smug therapist. Rebecca had been waiting for this moment for a long time; waiting to pounce on her lovers' youngest daughter for spewing lies about him. She would be ruthless in her questioning- no doubt an attempt to protect what was left of Gregory's perfect name. Aurora expected nothing less; her father had been decent to Rebecca. He put her through school, gave her unjust promotions, and bought her elegant diamonds- and after he'd beaten his wife and daughters to a bloody pulp, compelling the mother of his children to believe that they suffered because of her- he helped Rebecca with her first addiction case.

The City of Gotham worshipped the ground Gregory walked on after he reportedly saved his beautiful daughters from the unruly clutches of their abusive mother. And not only did he protect them from her, he offered her free treatment from his lead therapist; his prodigy - his whore.

"This is your first time in group therapy with me," continued Rebecca, turning her body in her chair to face Aurora completely, as if she were speaking to a child. "so I'll start with rules." She flips her red hair over her shoulder, too preoccupied with her new target to be worried about the massive man that now sat in her peripheral vision. She droned on, disregarding the way Aurora's eyes lowered into angry slits as they watched her. It wasn't until Rebecca was no longer speaking and had returned her body to its previous position, a scornful smile plastered on her face, that Aurora felt the pains in her hands from having them balled into tight fists; she forces her hands down flat against her thighs.

Rebecca's hands finger through an open manila folder in her lap, pausing over several pages. "Aurora Camille Donovan," she begins again, the spite in her voice masked with professionalism. "Born December 5th, 1989 to Mr. and Mrs. Gregory Donovan-"

"I knew it was you!"

Aurora's eyes pull away from Rebecca, instantly connecting with a small pale man across the circle. His eyes were wide, his mouth-containing one old tooth- flapped about as he talked, saliva pooling at the corners of his mouth. He smiled, one of his arms extending out to her, pointing, the other elbowing the masked man in his side. "She's Dr. Donovan's little girl!" he exclaimed, his small feet stomping on the ground. "I mean, you look just like him!"

"Mr. Pulley, please." Rebecca's voice went unheard over the sudden muttering in the circle.

"Your story was all over the news! That was years ago though." His feet slowed their manic pace and he enthusiastically scooted to the edge of his seat. "Where have you been all this time?"

"Mr. Pulley-"

"The reports about your sightings just stopped one day. I thought maybe you died and they didn't want to air it. Y'know, for your dad's sake and all."

Aurora's gaze remained on the tiny man, her eyebrows faintly scrunched.

"Did you really try to kill him?"

* * *

Bane sat silently, his legs still chained to his chair. The group, infuriating and time consuming, had dispersed moments before, four patients heading out into the gated yard behind the rehabilitation room for fresh air, one -whispering about the coming of night- heading back to her room, and the last, the most recent entry, crossing the room in hassled strides, to the other side where a pile of discarded items lay in an unclaimed pile. He flexed his fingers inside of his jacket, watching Aurora haul a miscellaneous pile from the top of an old desk.

She paced for a moment, her hands on her hips, any expression she might have had, hidden under the bandages on her face. He watches as she begins to push tables together, stacking some and flipping others and turning chairs on their sides, wondering with a smile how the nurses, so keen on using the words "for your own good," could fail to see not only how sane this young woman was, but how unlike the rest of them she seemed to be. After a few moments of disemboweling the tunnel contraption used for strengthening arms and turning it inside out, she steps away from what he now realizes is an obstacle course.

Her arms lift above her head, her toes pointing as she stretches. She reaches to one side, than the other, she bends back and leans forward. Then she slips her scrub top over her head, over her gauze veiled face, and tosses it to the ground. Bane sits up in his seat, intrigued by her brazen attitude; captivated by the fury that is falling off of her in monstrous waves.

_"Did you really try to kill him?" _

_Her eyebrows had furrowed a bit more, her eyes beginning to shift back and forth across her accusers face. "Excuse me?" _

_"Did you?"_

_A flame grew in her dark eyes. "Is that what they said? I tried to kill my father?" Anger and disbelief swelled in her words, her small hands once again becoming tight fists._

_"Oh yeah, that was the scandal of the year!" The man, ignorant to the damage he was generating, continued on. "Your mother went off on a drug binge and beat you and your sister half to death. And your dad tried to help her out but she didn't want the help." He choked on his words as if emotionally invested, his words dripping sarcasm as if he were explaining the plot to a movie rather than the story of her life. "Your sister moved out, unable to handle the pressure of taking care of your mom, and so the responsibility landed on you."_

_Her fists quivered under the weight of her grasp._

_"They said you blamed your dad for what happened to your mom and that you became emotionally unstable and tried to smother him in his sleep with a pillow."_

He watched her now; the same young woman he had earlier conceived to be empty was in fact filled to the point of rupturing; fueled only by the devastation of her past and by the rage that flowed through her. She rolls her shoulders and lowers herself to the ground, indignation hardening her petite muscles.

For the second time that day Bane is taken aback as Aurora takes off with speed that surpasses any expectation he had of her. She leaps over the desks with precision, kicking off of tables, and using the toppled chairs as stepping stones to build her force. She leaps from the last chair, sliding across a barrier two tables high and falling into a perfect tumble. As her feet touch down on the floor, she uses the force built up in her legs to shoot herself up into the air, her hands catching onto the exposed rod from the rehab machine and swinging her body up over the top of the tunnel.

The force from her legs continues forward as she lets her hands slip. Her feet pass over her head in a flawless back flip before she lands silently on the carpet, one leg stretched, ankle touching the floor, the other bent, knee to her chest, the fingers of her right hand barely brushing the carpet, her other arm outstretched, fingers spread, palm facing outward.

"Impeccable."

He would not underestimate her again.

The room was dark but his eyes observe the room as if it were broad daylight. It is quiet; the hospital staff, those that were favored, had retired for the evening, while the rest stayed behind to keep their patients in line. Four armed men, Gotham's finest, stand just beyond his closed door, none of them valiant enough to enter into his temporary domain- none of them willing to stare into the eyes of their liberator.

He sits calmly on his bed, ignoring the soreness of his back and the throbbing of his encased arms; his eyes taking in the emptiness that surrounds him. The hospital had taken the second bed from his room in an attempt to isolate him. At this he smiles. He had been isolated for much of his life; his relief coming in the form of a small child, terrified of the darkness. At this his eyes soften.

Talia, his little one- she filled his mind constantly- always troubling him, always mocking his incarceration with her freedom. He wondered about her, even worried on occasion- trying his hardest to tolerate the filth he had been plunged into. Now, his cramped muscles relaxing for the first time since his confines being placed on him, he thought of her, their past together, the way he would hold her through the night as she cried silent tears for her mother; she had missed her dearly.

"Bane," He could hear her voice, see the way her large brown eyes stared up at him in the dark, her small hand searching for the warmth of his chest. He would reach for her then and pull her closer to him. She would bury her face into his neck, her tiny arms hugging herself in the freezing night air of The Pit, and he would rest his chin on the top of her shivering head, breathing in the scent of life and of love that seemed to linger there. She was his to protect and to care for; to shield from the wickedness that had claimed her mother's life.

"I am here, little one." He would always say, his tired eyes refusing to close, refusing to let the monsters that haunted her nightmares come for her in the night.

_He angered them with his tenacity; his vigilance and his strength crushed many men that dared to approach her. But even with his ferocity, they were too much, even for him. They overpowered him, bringing him to his knees. How dare he hide such a prize beneath his arm during the night? How dare he keep a luxury so divine all to himself? How dare he conceal her fragile body from them? _

_They were unwavering in their attack; the hoard of ravaged men looking to destroy the only light, the only innocence left in the shadows of their abyss. He could not allow her mother's fate to become her own, and so he carried her through, hoisted her onto the ledge, and let them take him. _

_"Goodbye."_

_He watched her climb; nails gripping into the flesh of his face, tearing into his skin. Gashes wept blood beneath his assailants, his nose torn, his lips shredding under the claws of his enemies. He felt nothing._

_"Deshi Basara!"_

_He fought them; trying to break those that stood against him in order to bring agony to a child. A child that, as he watched, scaled the wall of The Pit, her tiny arms pulling her, her small legs leaping, inching closer to her freedom._

_"Deshi Basara!"_

_Rise, he had thought, a hand trying to wrap around his neck. Rise to your freedom, little bird. And he laughed, flesh dangling from his mangled chin, when her arms, illuminated with the light of the sun, were able to rest. She had done it! She, the only innocence left in their forgotten hell, had lived; her light was not destroyed. She was beautiful as she turned back once to peer down into Hell on Earth; to find him, her brown hair glowing red under the rays of light._

_So far she had risen; so high above where he would live out the rest of his days. _

_The inmates let him be when they had rid themselves of their contempt. They left his wrecked body to the prison doctor. It wasn't until the doctor had done his work and laid him to rest that he awoke, his body begging for death to escape the misery. But he did not die. He survived, day by day, hour by hour, wasting away under the biting pain of his injuries. _

_"My friend," Finally she returned to him; her body fully bloomed into matured curves, brown curls gently dancing against the exposed skin of her neck. "What has happened to you?" She peeled the filthy bandages from his face, exposing what flesh was left to the harsh air. He watched as her eyes, still innocent, still so full of life and light, filled with tears._

_She saved him, set him free, released him from his hell on earth; and she brought him to her father. _

_Ra's Al Ghul trained him, modifying his battered yet already strong body to block out the pain, making him faster and silent. He fixed him with a mask, and sent him on countless missions: deliveries, recoveries, forewarnings, and assassinations before denying him. All the while Talia stayed with him even if only in his mind. She heated his body during the winter nights on the outskirts of mountain villages; she calmed his anger when words of another mission that would again keep him from returning to the warmth of her bed were delivered to his camp via hawk, and she soothed the pain that shot down his spine when he went to stand or when he walked for long periods of time. _

_His little bird; flown to freedom and back to hell for his soul. _

He thought of her now. Her tenderness had grown hard over the years. The fevered way she used to claw at his skin when he loved her and the moans that rose from her core seemed distant. She would need him desperately, relentlessly giving her body to him, affectionately, fiercely; her love encasing him during the night.

His mind raced then, struggling to purge thoughts of Bruce Wayne loving her; thoughts of Wayne's soiled palms upon her naked skin, his undeserving hands touching her. Bane thought of her on top of him, her dark hair cascading down around her face, her hips moving against him, the fire behind her eyes dimming as the man she wishes only to kill, enjoys her.

His muscles have clenched again, flames burning beneath his skin. He vowed to kill Bruce Wayne the night Talia returned to him, her eyes low with shame, the smell of another man glistening on her skin.

_"He must trust me fully" she had said to him, her eyes refusing to look at him. "He must know that he gave me everything so that when I crush him-"_

_Bane stopped her there, his hands clamped down around her small wrists. Her face turned away from him as he pulled her closer, only stopping when her palms pressed into his chest. He wanted to love her then, to throw her down and be with her, to erase any traces of Wayne that still plagued her- but she would not let him. She would sit in her shame, not wanting his touch, not wanting his words or his forgiveness. _

_"You need not explain yourself."_

_It was then that she left him. She no longer called for him, no longer found her way to his bed in the night while his men were on their rounds; she no longer spoke softly of her protector. He allowed her to wallow in the festering hate that grew in her, allowed her to sink in her self-loathing and the revulsion that brewed within her soul for her father and for Bruce Wayne. _

_He couldn't help her. She had to do it on her own. She would drown in her guilt or she would fight to survive. _

_And she was a survivor. She survived the failing of Gotham's demise, and she survived the impact injuries sustained when the truck carrying her nuclear bomb fell into an underground tunnel in the city. Almost a year later, she survived learning that Bruce Wayne had also survived, and when she learned that the only reason Bane had survived was because of the armored vest he wore on his chest, she came back to him. _

_He took her aggressively that day, the sounds of his name falling from her parted lips, her legs clenching around his waist, her nails tearing into the skin of his back, her teeth in his shoulder- he loved her._

His little bird had grown into a woman before his very eyes, and he marveled at the thought of her- needing hastily to return to the tunnels under Gotham where she now stayed, plotting cautiously to exact her revenge on the city. They needed a new participant, an accomplice of sorts that would throw Gotham through a loop.

Her plan was for Bane to be thrown into Arkham Asylum where he would have a variety of foot soldiers to choose from - men who wanted nothing but to watch the people of Gotham fall to their knees with their afflictions. They would release these men, train them, and use them as weapons against the people, exciting an uprising, luring out those that reveled in the filth of the city. There would be no more mercy, no more breaking of bones and imprisonment, and captivity in destroyed tunnels; the protectors of the corrupt would be crushed. Bruce Wayne- the Batman- would die by his hands, leaving the city to them. The City of Gotham would fall once again into the hands of the oppressed and there it would die.

His mind then shifted to Aurora. There had been light in her once, when she was young, as is with all people. Her light had been destroyed, a story not unheard of; but her light had been replaced. Darkness filled her as it would anyone that has suffered, but a flame- though feeble- also burned within her.

It was a familiar flame; one that if stoked, would erupt into a sweltering heat, one that could devour a nation in scorching vehemence. The fire that exists in this girl, blistering the underside of her skin, and desiring escape from its confines not only lives within his little bird, but also within himself.

He would free that fire in the same manner that Talia had once freed him. Yes, Aurora would be very useful indeed.

**A/N: I'm so sorry for the long delay! I am someones Mommy and thus**  
**on call 24/7. I made this update longer in efforts to make **  
**up for my absence. I hope you enjoyed it! SO sorry again! **


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